ro JO^l 

. 138 T7 
1914 










(3^ 



\ 




/. yj^ c. 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



'Mine is no horse with wings, to gain 
The region of the Spheral chime; 

He does but drag a rumbling wain. 
Cheered by the coupled bells of rhyme * 
Coventry Patmore 



TREES 

& Other Poems 



By 
JOYCE KILMER 




Doubleday & Company, Inc. 
Garden City, New York 







Copyright, 1914 
by Doubleday & Company, Inc. 

All Eights E< served 

F?J:^TiD :x tee ocrmi statxs or AicraiCA 



REPlKGEMEMf GOP^ 



T O 
MY MOTHER 



Gentlest of critics, does yonr memory bold 

(I know it does) a record of the days 

When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise 
For halting verse and stories crudely told? 
Over these childish scrawls the years have rolled, 

They might not know the world's unfriendly gaze; 

But still your smile shines down familiar ways, 
Touches my words and turns their dross to gold. 

More dear to-day than in that vanished time 

Comes your nigh praise to make me proud and strong. 

In my poor notes you hear Love's splendid chimei. 
So unto you does this, my work belong. 

Take, then, a little gift of fragile rhyme: 
Your heart will change it to authentic song. 



For permission to reprint these poems, I thank the 
editors of The Century Magazine, The London Spectator, 
The CathoUc World, The Ave Maria, The Independent, 
The New York Times Review of Books, The New York 
Times Sxmday Magazine, Harper's Weekly, The Bellman, 
The Smart Set, The Lyric Year, ColUer's Weekly, The 
New World, The Churchman, and Poetry: A Magazine of 
Verse. 



CONTENTS 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Twelve-Forty-Five 13 

Pennies 17 

Trees 19 

Stars 20 

Old Poets 22 

Delicatessen 24 

Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy 29 

Wealth 31 

Martin 32 

The Apartment House ........ 34 

As Winds That Blow Against A Star ... 35 

St. Laurence 36 

To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself ... 38 

Memorial Day 40 

The Rosary 42 

Vision 43 

To Certain Poets 44 

Love's Lantern 46 

[7] 



CONTENTS 

Page 

St Alexis 47 

Folly 50 

Madness 52 

Poets 54 

Citizen of the World 55 

To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the 

Spring 56 

The Fourth Shepherd 58 

Easter 65 

Mount Houvenkopf 66 

The House with Nobody in It 67 

Dave Lilly 70 

Alarm Clocks 74 

Waverley • • • 75 



[10 J 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE 

(For Edward J. Wheeler) 

XT7ITHIN the Jersey City shed 

' " The engine coughs and shakes its head. 
The smoke, a plume of red and white, 
Waves madly in the face of night. 
And now the grave incurious stars 
Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars. 
Against the kind and awful reign 
Of darkness, this our angry train, 
A noisy little rebel, pouts 
Its brief defiance, flames and shouts — 
And passes on, and leaves no trace. 
For darkness holds its ancient place, 
Serene and absolute, the king 
Unchanged, of every living thing. 
The houses lie obscure and still 
In Rutherford and Carlton Hill, 
Our lamps intensify the dark 
Of slumbering Passaic Park. 
And quiet holds the weary feet 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE (continued) 

That daily tramp through Prospect Street. 

What though we clang and clank and roar 

Through all Passaic's streets ? No door 

Will open, not an eye will see 

Who this loud vagabond may be. 

Upon my crimson cushioned seat, 

In manufactured light and heat, 

I feel unnatural and mean. 

Outside the towns are cool and clean ; 

Curtained awhile from sound and sight 

They take God's gracious gift of night. 

The stars are watchful over them. 

On Clifton as on Bethlehem 

The angels, leaning down the sky, 

Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I — 

I ride, I blasphemously ride 

Through all the silent countryside. 

The engine's shriek, the headlight's glare^ 

Pollute the still nocturnal air. 

The cottages of Lake View sigh 

And sleeping, frown as we pass by. 

Why, even strident Paterson 

Rests quietly as any nun. 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE (continued) 

Her foolish warring children keep 
The grateful armistice of sleep. 
For what tremendous errand's sake 
Are we so blatantly awake? 
What precious secret is our freight? 
What king must be abroad so late? 
Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night 
And we rush forth to give him fight. 
Or else, perhaps, we speed his way 
To some remote unthinking prey. 
Perhaps a woman writhes in pain 
And listens — listens for the train! 
The train, that like an angel sings, 
The train, with healing on its wings. 
Now "Hawthorne!" the conductor cries. 
My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes. 
He hurries yawning through the car 
And steps out where the houses are. 
This is the reason of our quest ! 
Not wantonly we break the rest 
Of town and village, nor do we 
Lightly profane night's sanctity. 
What Love commands the train fulfills, 

[^5] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE (continued) 

And beautiful upon the hills 

Are these our feet of burnished steel. 

Subtly and certainly I feel 

That Glen Rock welcomes us to her 

And silent Ridgewood seems to stir 

And smile, because she knows the train 

Has brought her children back again. 

We carry people home — and so 

God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go. 

Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale 

Lift sleepy heads to give us hail. 

In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffem stand 

Houses that wistfully demand 

A father — son — some human thing 

That this, the midnight train, may bring. 

The trains that travel in the day 

They hurry folks to work or play. 

The midnight train is slow and old 

But of it let this thing be told, 

To its high honor be it said 

It carries people home to bed. 

My cottage lamp shines white and clear. 

God bless the train that brought me here. 

[i6] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



PENNIES 

A FEW long-hoarded pennies in his hand 
Behold him stand; 
A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad. 
The joy that once he had, 
The first delight of ownership is fled. 
He bows his little head. 
Ah, cruel Time, to kill 
'That splendid thrill! 

Then in his tear-dimmed eyes 

New lights arise. 

He drops his treasured pennies on the ground, 

They roll and bound 

And scattered, rest. 

Now with what zest 

He runs to find his errant wealth again! 

So unto men 

Doth God, depriving that He may bestow. 

Fame, health and money go. 

But that they may, new found, be newly sweet. 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 

PENNIES (continued) 

Yea, at His feet 

Sit, waiting us, to their concealment bid, 

AH they, our lovers, whom His Love hath hid. 

Xo, comfort blooms on pain, and peace on strife, 

And gain on loss. 
What is the key to Everlasting Life? 

A blood-stained Cross. 



[i8] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



I 



, TREES 

(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden) 

THINK that I shall never see 
A poem lovely as a tree. 



A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; 

A tree that looks at God all day. 
And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in Summer wesir 
A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 
Who intimately lives with rain. 

Poems are made by fools like me. 
But only God can make a tree. 



[19] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



STARS 

(For the Rev. James J. Daly, S. J.) 

"DRIGHT stars, yellow stars, flashing through 
^ the air, 

Are you errant strands of Lady Mary's hair? 
As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down 

through. 
Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven 

too? 

Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes. 

Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies. 

Now and then a winged child turns his merry 

face 
Down toward the spinning world— what a funny 

place ! 

Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ re- 
ceive my soul!) 

In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody 
hole. 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
STARS (continued) 

Four great iron spikes there were, red and never 

dry, 
Michael plucked them from the Cross and set 

them in the sky. 

Christ's Troop, Mary's Guard, God's own men. 
Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike 

again. 
Every steel-born spark that flies where God's 

battles are. 
Flashes past the face of God, and is a star. 



[21] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



OLD POETS 

(For Robert Cortez HoUiday) 

yP I should live in a forest 
* And sleep underneath a tree, 
No grove of impudent saplings 
Would make a home for me. 

I'd go where the old oaks gather, 
Serene and good and strong, 

And they would not sigh and tremble 
And vex me with a song. 

The pleasantest sort of poet 
Is the poet who's old and wise, 

With an old white beard and wrinkles 
About his kind old eyes. 

For these young flippertigibbcts 
A-rhyming their hours away 

They won't be still like honest men 
And listen to what you say. 

[22] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 

OLD POETS (continued) 

The young poet screams forever 

About his sex and his soul ; 
But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe. 

And polishes its bowl. 

There should be a club for poets 
Who have come to seventy year. 

They should sit in a great hall drinking 
Red wine and golden beer. 

They would shuffle in of an evening, 
Each one to his cushioned seat, 

And there would be mellow talking 
And silence rich and sweet. 

There is no peace to be taken 

With poets who are young, 
For they worry about the wars to be fought 

And the songs that must be sung. 

But the old man knows that he's in his chair 
And that God's on His throne in the sky. 

So he sits by the fire in comfort 
And he lets the world spin by. 

[^3] 



TREES AND O'x'HER POEMS 



DELICATESSEN 

\T7HY is that wanton gossip Fame 

So dumb about this man's affairs? 
Why do we titter at his name 

Who come to buy his curious wares? 

Here is a shop of wonderment. 

From every land has come a prize ; 
Rich spices from the Orient, 

And fruit that knew Italian skies. 

And figs that ripened by the sea 
In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil, 

Strange pungent meats from Germany, 
And currants from a Grecian hill. 

He is the lord of goodly things 

That make the poor man's table gay. 

Yet of his worth no minstrel sings 
And on his tomb there is no bay. 



[24] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
DELICATESSEN (continued) 

Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised. 
This trafficker in humble sweets. 

Because his little shops are raised 
By thousands in the city streets. 

Yet stars in greater numbers shine, 
And violets in millions grow. 

And they in many a golden line 
Are sung, as every child must know. 

Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes. 
His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face. 

His shop, and all he sells and buys 
Are desperately commonplace. 

Well, it is true he has no sword 
To dangle at his booted knees. 

He leans across a slab of board, 

And draws his knife and slices cheese. 

He never heard of chivalry, 
He longs for no heroic times; 

He thinks of pickles, olives, tea, 

And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes. 

— 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
DELICATESSEN (continued) 

His world has narrow walls, it seems; 

By counters is his soul confined; 
His wares are all his hopes and dreams. 

They are the fabric of his mind. 

Yet — in a room above the store 
There is a woman — and a child 

Pattered just now across the floor; 
The shopman looked at him and smiled 

For, once he thrilled with high romance 
And tuned to love his eager voice. 

Like any cavalier of France 

He wooed the maiden of his choice. 

And now deep in his weary heart 
Are sacred flames that whitely bum. 

He has of Heaven's grace a part 
Who loves, who is beloved in turn. 

And when the long day's work is done, 
(How slow the leaden minutes ran!) 

Home, with his wife and little son. 
He is no huckster, but a man! 

[^6] " 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
DELICATESSEN (continued) 

And there are those who grasp his hand, 
Who drink with him and wish him well. 

O in no drear and lonely land 

Shall he who honors friendship dwell. 

And in his little shop, who knows 

What bitter games of war are played? 

Why, daily on each corner grows 
A foe to rob him of his trade. 

He fights, and for his fireside's sake ; 

He fights for clothing and for bread i 
The lances of his foemen make 

A steely halo round his head. 

He decks his window artfully. 
He haggles over paltry sums. 

In this strange field his war must be 
And by such blows his triumph comes. 

What if no trumpet sounds to call 
His armed legions to his side? 

What if, to no ancestral hall 

He comes in all a victor's pride? 

[^7] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
DELICATESSEN (continued) 

The scene shall never fit the deed. 

Grotesquely wonders come to pass. 
The fool shall mount an Arab steed 

And Jesus ride upon an ass. 

This man has home and child and wife 
And battle set for every day. 

This man has God and love and life; 
These stand, all else shall pass away. 

O Carpenter of Nazareth, 

Whose mother was a village maid, 
Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath 

In scorn on any humble trade? 

Have pity on our foolishness 

And give us eyes, that we may see 

Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress 
The splendor of humanity! 



[28] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



SERVANT GIRL AND GROCER'S BOY 



TTER lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!" 
Her soul spoke thus (I know it did): 



"O king of realms of endless joy. 
My own, my golden grocer's boy, 

I am a princess forced to dwel] 
Within a lonely kitchen cell, 

While you go dashing through the land 
With loveliness on every hand. 

Your whistle strikes my eager ears 
Like music of the choiring spheres. 

The mighty earth grows faint and reels 
Beneath your thundering wagon wheels. 

How keenly, perilously sweet 
To cling upon that swaying seat! 

[29] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 

SERVANT GIRL AND GROCER'S BOY (cottt.) 

How happy she who by your side 
May share the splendors of that ride ! 

Ah, if you will not take my hand 
And bear me off across the land. 

Then, traveller from Arcady, 
Remain awhile and comfort me. 

What other maiden can you find 
So young and delicate and kind?" 

Her lips* remark was: "Oh, you kid!" 
Her soul spoke thus (I know it did). 



[30] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



WEALTH 

* (For Aline) 

"n^ROM what old ballad, or from what rich 
"*" frame 

Did you descend to glorify the earth? 
Was it from Chaucer's singing book you came? 

Or did Watteau's small brushes give you birth? 

Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand 
Could Raphael or Leonardo trace. 

Nor could the poets know in Fairyland 
The changing wonder of your lyric face. 

I would possess a host of lovely things, 
But I am poor and such joys may not be. 

So God who lifts the poor and humbles kings 
Sent loveliness itself to dwell with me. 



[31] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



MARTIN 

X T /"HEN I am tired of earnest men, 

' ^ Intense and keen and sharp and clevefj 
Pursuing fame with brush or pen 

Or counting metal disks forever, 
Then from the halls of Shadowland 

Beyond the trackless purple sea 
Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand 

Beside my desk and talk to me. 

Still on his delicate pale face 

A quizzical thin smile is showing. 
His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace. 

His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. 
He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, 

A suit to match his soft grey hair, 
A rakish stick, a knowing hat, 

A manner blithe and debonair. 

How good that he who always knew 

That being lovely was a duty, 
Should have gold halls to wander through 

And should himself inhabit beauty. 

[32] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
MARTIN (continued) 

How like his old unselfish way 

To leave those halls of splendid mirth 

And comfort those condemned to stay 
Upon the dull and sombre earth. 

Some people ask: "What cruel chance 

Made Martin's life so sad a story?" 
Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, 

And wore an overcoat of glory. 
A fleck of sunlight in the street, 

A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, 
Such visions made each moment sweet 

For this receptive ancient child. 

Because it was old Martin's lot 

To be, not make, a decoration, 
Shall we then scorn him, having not 

His genius of appreciation? 
Rich joy and love he got and gave; 

His heart was merry as his dress ; 
Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave 

Who did not gain, but was, success! 

F33] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE APARTMENT HOUSE 

CJEVERE against the pleasant arc of sky 
^ The great stone box is cruelly displayed. 
The street becomes more dreary from its 
shade, 
And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die. 
Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie, 
Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade. 
How worse than folly is their labor made 
Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high ! 



Yet, as I look, I see a woman's face 
Gleam from a window far above the street. 

This is a house of homes, a sacred place. 
By human passion made divinely sweet. 

How all the building thrills with sudden grace 
Beneath the magic of Love's golden feet! 



[34] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



AS WINDS THAT BLOW AGAINST A 
STAR 

(For Aline) 

"VTOW by what whim of wanton chance 
'*' ^ Do radiant eyes know sombre days? 
And feet that shod in light should dance 
Walk weary and laborious ways? 

But rays from Heaven, white and whole, 
May penetrate the gloom of earth ; 

And tears but nourish, in your soul, 
The glory of celestial mirth. 

The darts of toil and sorrow, sent 
Against your peaceful beauty, are 

A.S foolish and as impotent 
As winds that blow against a star. 



[35] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



ST. LAURENCE 

XTT'ITHIN the broken Vatican 
^ ^ The murdered Pope is lying dead. 
The soldiers of Valerian 
Their evil hands are wet and red. 

Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits. 

His cassock is his only mail. 
The troops of Hell have burst the gates. 

But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail. 

They have encompassed him with steel, 
They spit upon his gentle face. 

He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal 
The Church's hidden treasure-place. 

Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight, 
Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee I 

Since thou hast fought the goodly fight 
A martyr*s death is fixed for thee. 



[36] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 

^^— ^ ■ I I I 11 ■ ■ I I ■ 11 I ■ I ^i^mm^^^^m^mmm ■ ■ i i. m ^ ■! ■ ■■■■■ ■ 

ST. LAURENCE (continued) 

St. Laurence, pray for us to bear 
The faith which glorifies thy name. 

St. Laurence, pray for us to share 

The wounds of Love's consuming flame. 



[373 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



TO A YOUNG POET WHO KILLED 
HIMSELF 

XT /"HEN you had played with life a space 
And made it drink and lust and sing, 
You flung it back into God's face 

And thought you did a noble thing. 
"Lo, I have lived and loved," you said, 

"And sung to fools too dull to hear me. 
Now for a cool and grassy bed 

With violets in blossom near me." 

Well, rest is good for weary feet. 

Although they ran for no great prize ; 
And violets are very sweet, 

Although their roots are in your eyes. 
But hark to what the earthworms say 

Who share with you your muddy haven: 
"The fight was on — you ran away. 

You are a coward and a craven. 

"The rug is ruined where you bled ; 

It was a dirty way to die ! 
To put a bullet through your head 

And make a silly woman cry! 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 

TO A YOUNG POET WHO KILLED HIMSELF 
(continued) 

You could not vex the merry stars 

Nor make them heed you, dead or living. 

Not all your puny anger mars 
God's irresistible forgiving. 

"Yes, God forgives and men forget, 

And you're forgiven and forgotten. 
You might be gaily sinning yet 

And quick and fresh instead of rotten. 
And when you think of love and fame 

And all that might have come to pass, 
Then don't you feel a little shame? 

And don't you think you were an ass?" 



[39] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



MEMORIAL DAY 

"Dulce et decorum est" 

nr^HE bugle echoes shrill and sweet, 

"■■ But not of war it sings to-day. 
The road is rh3rthmic with the feet 
Of men-at-arms who come to pray. 

The roses blossom white and red 
On tombs where weary soldiers lie j 

Flags wave above the honored dead 
And martial music cleaves the sky. 

Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel. 
They kept the faith and fought the fight. 

Through flying lead and crimson steel 

They plunged for Freedom and the Right. 

May we, their grateful children, learn 
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod, 

Who went through fire and death to earn 
At last the accolade of God. 



[40] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
MEMORIAL DAY (continued) 

In shining rank on rank arrayed 

They march, the legions of the Lord ; 

He is their Captain unafraid, 
The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a 
sword. 



C41] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE ROSARY 

"^JOT on the lute, nor harp of many strings 
-*• ^ Shall all men praise the Master of all song. 

Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long ; 
And skilled must be the laureates of kings. 
Silent, O lips that utter foolish things ! 

Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong ! 

How from your toil shall issue, white and 
strong, 
Music like that God's chosen poet sings? 

There is one harp that any hand can play. 
And from its strings what harmonies arise ! 

There is one song that any mouth can say,^ — 
A song that lingers when all singing dies. 

When on their beads our Mother's children pray 
Immortal music charms the grateful skies. 



[42.1 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



VISION 

(For Aline) 

T TOMER, they tell us, was blind and could 
•'' "*■ not see the beautiful faces 
Looking up into his own and reflecting the joy 

of his dream, 
Yet did he seem 
Gifted with eyes that could follow the gods to 
their holiest places. 

I have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love- 
arrows laden, 
Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white- 
breasted queen, 
Yet have I seen 
All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart 
of a maiden. 



[43] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



TO CERTAIN POETS 

^^OW is the rh5nner's honest trade 
"*" A thing for scornful laughter made. 

The merchant's sneer, the clerk's disdain. 
These are the burden of our pain. 

Because of you did this befall, 

You brought this shame upon us all. 

You little poets mincing there 

With women's hearts and women's hair! 

How sick Dan Chaucer's ghost must be 
To hear you lisp of "Poesie"! 

A heavy-handed blow, I think. 

Would make your veins drip scented ink. 

You strut and smirk your little while 
So mildly, delicately vile ! 

[44] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
TO CERTAIN POETS (continued) 

Your tiny voices mock God's wrath, 
You snails that crawl along His path! 

Why, what has God or man to do 
With wet, amorphous things like you? 

This thing alone you have achieved: 
Because of you, it is believed 

That all who earn their bread by rhjnue 
Are like yourselves, exuding slime. 

Oh, cease to write, for very shame. 
Ere all men spit upon our name! 

Take up your needles, drop your pen. 
And leave the poet's craft to men ! 



[45] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



LOVE'S LANTERN 

(For Aline) 

"OECAUSE the road was steep and long 
'^ And through a dark and lonely land, 
God set upon my lips a song 
And put a lantern in my hand. 

Through miles on weary miles of night 
That stretch relentless in my way 

My lantern bums serene and white. 
An unexhausted cup of day. 

O golden lights and lights like wine, 
How dim your boasted splendors are. 

Behold this little lamp of mine ; 
It is more starlike than a star ! 



I46] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



ST. ALEXIS 

Patron of Beggars 

\ TTE who beg for bread as we daily tread 
^ ^ Country lane and city street, 
Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway 

To the saint with the vagrant feet. 
Our altar light is a buttercup bright, 

And our shrine is a bank of sod, 
But still we share St. Alexis' care. 

The Vagabond of God. 

They gave him a home in purple Rome 

And a princess for his bride, 
But he rowed away on his wedding day 

Down the Tiber's rushing tide. 
And he came to land on the Asian strand 

Where the heathen people dwell ; 
As a beggar he strayed and he preached and 
prayed 

And he saved their souls from hell. 



[47] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
ST. ALEXIS (continued) 

Bowed with years and pain he came back again 

To his father's dwelling place. 
There was none to see who this tramp might be, 

For they knew not his bearded face. 
But his father said, "Give him drink and bread 

And a couch underneath the stair." 
So Alexis crept to his hole and slept. 

But he might not linger there. 

For when night came down on the seven-hilled 
town. 

And the emperor hurried in, 
Saying, "Lo, I hear that a saint is near 

Who will cleanse us of our sin,'* 
Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain- 

For his soul had fled afar. 
From his fleshly home he had gone to roam 

Where the gold-paved highways are. 

We who beg for bread as we daily tread 

Country lane and city street. 
Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway 

To the saint with the vagrant feet. 

C48] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



ST. ALEXIS (continued) 

Our altar light is a buttercup bright. 
And our shrine is a bank of sod. 

But still we share ^t. Alexis' care. 
The Vagabond of God ! 



[49] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



FOLLY 

(For A. K. K.) 

XX /"HAT distant mountains thrill and glow 
' ^ Beneath our Lady Folly's tread? 
Why has she left us, wise in woe, 

Shrewd, practical, uncomforted? 
We cannot love or dream or sing, 

We are too C5mical to pray. 
There is no joy in anything 

Since Lady Folly went away. 

Many a knight and gentle maid. 

Whose glory shines from years gone by. 
Through ignorance was unafraid 

And as a fool knew how to die. 
Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne 

And broke the ranks of Hell with her, 
And Folly's smile shone brightly on 

Christ's plaything. Brother Juniper. 

Our minds are troubled and defiled 
By study in a weary school. 

[50] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
FOLLY (continued) 

O for the folly of the child! 

The ready courage of the fool ! 
Lord, crush our knowledge utterly 

And make us humble, simple men; 
And cleansed of wisdom, let us see 

Our Lady Folly's face again. 



[513 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



MADNESS 

(For Sara Teasdale) 

'Tp^HE lonely farm, the crowded street, 

-*■ The palace and the slum, 
Give welcome to my silent feet 
As, bearing gifts, I come. 

Last night a beggar crouched alone, 
A ragged helpless thing ; 

I set him on a moonbeam throne- 
Today he is a king. 

Last night a king in orb and crown 
Held court with splendid cheer ; 

Today he tears his purple gown 
And moans and shrieks in fear. 

Not iron bars, nor flashing spears. 

Not land, nor sky, nor sea. 
Nor love*s artillery of tears 

Can keep mine own from me. 

L52] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 

MADNESS (continued) 

Serene, unchanging, ever faifi 

I smile with secret mirth 
And in a net o£ mine own hair 

I swing the captive earth* 



[53] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



POETS 

\ TAIN is the chiming of forgotten bells 
^ That the wind sways above a ruined 
shrine. 
Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells 
Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine, 

Light songs we breathe that perish with our 
breath 

Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod. 
They shall not live who have not tasted death. 

They only sing who are struck dumb by God. 



[54] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD 

"^JO longer of Him be it said 

"^^ "He hath no place to lay His head." 

In every land a constant lamp 

Flames by His small and mighty camp. 

There is no strange and distant place 
That is not gladdened by His face. 

And every nation kneels to hail 

The Splendour shining through Its veil. 

Cloistered beside the shouting street. 
Silent, He calls me to His feet. 

Imprisoned for His love of me 
He makes my spirit greatly free. 

And through my lips that uttered sin 
The King of Glory enters in. 



[55] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



TO A BLACKBIRD AND HIS MATE 
WHO DIED IN THE SPRING 

(For Kenton) 

A N iron hand has stilled the throats 
■^^ That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee 
And dammed the flood of silver notes 

That drenched the world in melody. 
The blosmy apple boughs are yearning 
For their wild choristers* returning, 

But no swift wings flash through the tree. 

Ye that were glad and fleet and strong, 

Shall Silence take you in her net? 
And shall Death quell that radiant song 

Whose echo thrUls the meadow yet? 
Burst the frail web about you clinging 
And charm Death's cruel heart with singing 

Till with strange tears his eyes are wet. 

The scented morning of the year 

Is old and stale now ye are gone. 
No friendly songs the children hear 

Among the bushes on the lawn. 

[56] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 

TO A BLACKBIRD AND HIS MATE WHO 
DIED IN THE SPRING (continued) 

When babies wander out a-Maying 
Will ye, their bards, afar be straying? 
XJnhymned by you, what is the dawn? 

Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die. 

Above the stars is set your nest. 
Through Heaven's fields ye sing and fly 

And in the trees of Heaven rest. 
And little children in their dreaming 
Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming 

And smile, by your clear music blest. 



[57l 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE FOURTH SHEPHERD 

(For Thomas Walsh) 

I 

/^N nights like this the huddled sheep 
^^ Are like white clouds upon the grass, 
And merry herdsmen guard their sleep 
And chat and watch the big stars pass. 

It is a pleasant thing to lie 

Upon the meadow on the hill 
With kindly fellowship near by 

Of sheep and men of gentle will. 

I lean upon my broken crook 

And dream of sheep and grass and men— 
O shameful eyes that cannot look 

On any honest thing again ! 

On bloody feet I clambered down 

And fled the wages of my sin, 
T am the leavings of the town, 

And meanly serve its meanest inn. 

I58] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
THE FOURTH SHEPHERD (continued) 

I tramp the courtyard stones in grief. 
While sleep takes man and beast to her. 

And every cloud is calling "Thief!" 
And every star calls "Murderer !** 



[59] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE FOURTH SHEPHERD (continued) 



II 



The hand of God is sure and strong. 
Nor shall a man forever flee 

The bitter punishment of wrong. 
The wrath of God is over me ! 

With ashen bread and wine of tears 
Shall I be solaced in my pain. 

I wear through black and endless years 
Upon my brow the mark of Cain. 



[60] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE FOURTH SHEPHERD (continued) 



III 

Poor vagabond, so old and mild, 
Will they not keep him for a night? 

And She, a woman great with child, 
So frail and pitiful and white. 

Good people, since the tavern door 
Is shut to you, come here instead. 

See, I have cleansed my stable floor 
And piled fresh hay to make a bed. 

Here is some milk and oaten cake. 

Lie down and sleep and rest you fair. 
Nor fear, O simple folk, to take 

The bounty of a child of care. 



[6i] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE FOURTH SHEPHERD (continued) 



IV 



On nights like this the huddled sheep— 

I never saw a night so fair. 
How huge the sky is, and how deep ! 

And how the planets flash and glare ! 

At dawn beside my drowsy flock 
What winged music I have heard! 

But now the clouds with singing rock 
As if the sky were turning bird. 

O blinding Light, O blinding Light ! 

Burn through my heart with sweetest pain* 
O flaming Song, most loudly bright, 

Consume away my deadly stain! 



[62] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE FOURTH SHEPHERD (continued) 



The stable glows against the sky, 

And who are these that throng the way? 

My three old comrades hasten by 
And shining angels kneel and pray. 

The door swings wide— -I cannot go — 
I must and yet I dare not see. 

Lord, who am I that I should know— » 
Lord, God, be merciful to me ! 



[63] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE FOURTH SHEPHERD (continued) 



VI 

O Whiteness, whiter than the fleece 
Of new-washed sheep on April sod ! 

O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace, 
O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God! 



[643 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



EASTER 

'nr^HE air is like a butterfly 
■^ With frail blue wings. 
The happy earth looks at the sky 
And sings. 



[6S1 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



MOUNT HOUVENKOPF 

QERENE he stands, with mist serenely 
crowned, 

And draws a cloak of trees about his breast. 

The thunder roars but cannot break his rest 
And from his rugged face the tempests bound. 
He does not heed the angry lightning's wound, 

The raging blizzard is his harmless guest. 

And human life is but a passing jest 
To him who sees Time spin the years around. 

But fragile souls, in skyey reaches find 

High vantage-points and view him from afar. 

How low he seems to the ascended mind, 
How brief he seems where all things endless 
are; 

This little playmate of the mighty wind 
This young companion of an ancient star. 



[66] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT 

TT7HENEVER I walk to Suffem along the 

' ^ Erie track 
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles 

broken and black. 
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I 

always stop for a minute 
And look at the house, the tragic house, the 

house with nobody in it. 

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear 

there are such things ; 
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth 

and sorrowings. 
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it 

were, I do; 
For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or 

two. 

This house on the road to Suffem needs a dozen 

panes of glass, 
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take 

a sc5rthe to the grass. 

[67] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT (cont.) 

It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines 

should be trimmed and tied ; 
But what it needs the most of all is some people 

living inside. 

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were 

paid 
I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and 

saw and spade. 
I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used 

to be 
And I'd find some people who wanted a home and 

give it to them free. 

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring 

window and door, 
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on 

its block in the store. 
But there's nothing mournful about it; it can 

not be sad and lone 
For the lack of something within it that it has 

never known. 



[68] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT (cont.) 

But a house that has done what a house should 

do, a house that has sheltered life. 
That has put its loving wooden arms around a 

man and his wife, 
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held 

up his stumbling feet, 
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever 

your eyes could meet. 

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track 
I never go by the empty house without stopping 

and looking back, 
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof 

and the shutters fallen apart, 
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is 

a house with a broken heart. 



[69] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



DAVE LILLY 

'T^HERE'S a brook on the side of Greylock 
*■■ that used to be full of trout, 
But there's nothing there now but minnows; 

they say it is all fished out. 
I fished there many a Summer day some twenty 

years ago, 
And I never quit without getting a mess of a 

dozen or so. 

There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the 
North Adams road, 

And he spent all his time fishing, while his neigh- 
bors reaped and sowed. 

He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire 
hills, I think. 

And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the 
tavern and drink. 

Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares 

very much; 
They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and 

loafers and such. 

[70] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 
DAVE LILLY (continued) 

But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant 

as you could wish; 
He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he 

certainly could fish. 

The other night I was walking up the hill from 

Williamstown 
And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I 

stopped on the bridge and sat down. 
I looked at the blackened water with its little 

flecks of white 
And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of 

the Summer night. 

And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to 

me I could feel 
The presence of someone near me, and I heard 

the hum of a reel. 
And the water was churned and broken, and 

something was brought to land 
By a twist and flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft 

and shadowy hand. 



[71] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 

DAVE LILLY (continued) 

I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted 
all about; 

There wasn't a sign of a fisherman ; there wasn't 
a sign of a trout. 

But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hol- 
low oak 

And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to 
smoke. 

It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished 
that brook; 

And there's nothing in it but minnows that nib- 
ble the bait off your hook. 

But before the sun has risen and after the moon 
has set 

I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's 
ghost to get. 

I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of 

rye 
And leave it down by the hollow oak, where 

Lilly's ghost went by. 



[72] 



TREES AMD OTHER POEMS 
DAVE LILLY (continued) 

I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find 
his grave 

And put some flowers on it — ^but this will be bet- 
ter for Dave. 



[73] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



ALARM CLOCKS 

IT THEN Dawn strides out to wake a dewy 
' ^ farm 

Across green fields and yellow hills of hay 

The little twittering birds laugh in his way 
And poise triumphant on his shining arm. 
He bears a sword of flame but not to harm 

The wakened life that feels his quickening 
sway 

And barnyard voices shrilling "It is day!" 
Take by his grace a new and alien charm. 

But in the city, like a wounded thing 

That limps to cover from the angry chase, 

He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights 
sing, 
And wanly mock his young and shameful face ; 

And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring 

In many a high and dreary sleeping place. 



[74] 



TREES AND OTHER POEMS 



WAVERLEY 

1814-1914 

\ T fHEN, on a novel's newly printed page 
' ^ We find a maudlin eulogy of sin, 
And read of ways that harlots wander in, 

And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage ; 

Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage, 
Taps on her desk and bids the class begin 
To con the problems that have always been 

Perplexed mankind's unhappy heritage; 

Then in what robes of honor habited 

The laureled wizard of the North appears! 

Who raised Prince Charlie's cohorts from the 
dead. 
Made Rose's mirth and Flora's noble tears, 

And formed that shining legion at whose head 
Rides Waverley, triumphant o'er the years ! 



[75] 



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